


Calling us home

by Vampiric_Charms



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:56:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/pseuds/Vampiric_Charms
Summary: Anxiety, guilt, stress - all par for the course, isn’t it (then tripled when Victor is concerned).  Double that when Victor is suddenly not around when Yuuri comes from from practice, and then add in a few unexpected text messages, some maybe not-so-helpful off-hand words from his sister, and even more baffling responses from Victor himself, and of course Yuuri’s afternoon goes much differently than he really expected - or wanted - it to.





	Calling us home

**Author's Note:**

> This is set near the beginning of the series, and I do not think there are any spoilers. Thank you, as always, to Naamah for her encouragement and ears while this was being written! I’ve been so slow on the writing end lately.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

The sky was just beginning to open with evening rain when Yuuri made his way inside, pulling the door closed quickly behind him.  He called out a cheerful greeting as he tugged his shoes off in the entryway, dropping his skating bag there beside them and following the delightful smells from the kitchen into the dining room proper.  Makkachin ran over to greet him, and he happily scratched behind her ears for a moment as he walked by.  

“Ah, perfect timing!” his mother replied, peering out from the kitchen with a smile and then immediately disappearing again.

“More like ‘ _about_ time’,” Mari muttered from the table.  Yuuri gave her a curious look and she stared back at him, surprised.  “What, like you didn’t know your precious Victor’s been sick all afternoon?” she asked incredulously, her fingers stopping their bored flipping through her magazine.  Yuuri’s eyebrows shot up with a spike of fear dipping in his stomach, eyes going wide behind his glasses.  

Mari still stared at him as her expression lost some of its severity.  “I mean...come on, Mom heard him puking his guts out when he got home at lunchtime.  You - you knew, right?”

Guilt began to roar against his ears, ringing with intensity.  Because no, Victor hadn’t said anything about feeling ill, and Yuuri felt horrible, and stupid, and unbelievably blind for not noticing his subdued attitude, the soft words, those unfocused eyes.  It all seemed so _obvious_ now, thinking back rapidly over their blurred morning together, how could he not have _noticed_?  How could he have kept asking Victor, over and over, to keep pushing their time at the rink by just another thirty minutes, another fifteen, before he had to leave for ballet?

How _awful_ of him, to not notice, to just keep going and going when that whole time -

“Yuuri.”

He blinked quickly, reining his thoughts in abruptly from their tumble, to find Mari had stood from the table and come to his side without him having noticed.  “He’s okay,” she told him softly.  “Vic-chan’s fine, Mom got him to drink some water and put him to bed.  He doesn’t have a fever or anything, he just wasn’t feeling all that great.  He’s fine.  Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri repeated automatically, the Japanese sliding heavily off his tongue.  “Yeah, okay.”

But the guilt clawed at him, chewed through his stomach and gnawed relentlessly at his mind.  Had he made Victor worse, by dragging him from bed when he’d been reluctant to move this morning?  He remembered, now, how the usual early riser had been sluggish to join him for breakfast, how Victor had been slow with movement and reluctant to talk, how Yuuri had noticed but brushed it off because Victor hadn’t said anything about it, had come anyway, had not mentioned anything was wrong.  Yuuri bit his lip.  It was his fault, wasn’t it, for asking him to stay longer at the rink?

“Yuuri -”

Whatever Mari was about to say was interrupted by Hiroko coming into the dining room with a fresh cup of tea.  She smiled brightly and handed it to her son, cupping his hands around the warm ceramic and humming in answer to a question no one had asked.  “Take this on up,” she told him without room for argument.  “Vic-chan is probably still asleep, but see if he wants it.  And ask if he wants supper with us!  If not, I’ll just set some rice aside.  Go, go!  Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, okaasan,” Yuuri murmured, bowing his head for a moment as he took in the racing of his heart and the gentle heat of the cup as it sent warmth into his chilly fingers.

“Hm, yes.”  She patted his hands again in a very tender, knowing way and turned him around toward the stairs, a gentle grin on her lips.  “Go tend to your friend and come back down for food.  I will come up if you need me.  Mari,” Hiroko said, moving on to the business of dinner, “will you help me with the main room, please?  We’ve misplaced a table setting and your father can’t find it.”

Yuuri walked slowly from the room toward the stairs, half listening as his sister explained that the setting was not, in fact, missing, but had actually been accidentally broken the night before by a drunk customer very involved in his game show playing on the television.  Hiroko sighed, but then began to laugh as Mari recounted the story for her with great embellishment.

The hallway upstairs was dark when Yuuri made it to the landing, and he paused, taking a breath and listening again for the pounding of his heart in his ears.  _His fault, his fault, his fault_ , repeated with every pulse, and he had the hardest time quieting that traitorous voice as he padded softly to Victor’s door, afraid, almost, of what he would find there.

He knocked softly on the wooden frame of the door, waiting for a response from inside that did not come.  He paused, unsure, and knocked one more time with only the slightest bit more force to it.  When there was still no sound from inside, Yuuri very slowly slid the door back and peered cautiously inside.

All the lamps were off, the dim light from the stairway spilling in from behind him to fall across the tatami in broken shadows.  Even the blinds had been pulled down over the gloomy, low clouds to block any stray bits of sunshine that hadn’t seemed willing to shine that day.  Yuuri blinked, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and found Victor in bed, curled on his side away from the door with the blankets pulled up tight around him.  

Victor hadn’t stirred from Yuuri’s appearance, and he hesitated again.  “Victor?” he said quietly into the stillness.  

Nothing.

“Victor,” Yuuri tried yet again, walking into the room toward the bed to set the warm cup down on the bedside table as gently as he could.  “My mom made you some tea.  Do you want any?”  Victor made a grumbling sort of noise that didn’t exactly sound like he was saying anything coherent.  “Well, I’ve - I’ve put it here, okay?”

‘Here’ was on the table beside a smattering of things that looked as though they’d been knocked over, and Yuuri resisted the urge to put them to rights again, the way they should be - the way Victor prefered them to be.  A glass half full of water was perilously close to the edge and he pushed it back, away from a fall.  As he did so, he caught a glimpse of a prescription bottle knocked sideways and filled with dusty green pills he didn’t recognize.  The cap was on crooked and the dispensing information was in Cyrillic.

“Victor, are you all right?”

Yuuri could see Victor’s eyes flutter open, even in the darkness, a brief glimmer of glassy blue as he wearily turned his head over his shoulder vaguely in Yuuri’s direction, before they squeezed closed again and lowered back down to bury into his pillow.  He mumbled what was decidedly not English, muffled and nearly unintelligible.  Something in Yuuri’s chest pummeled against his ribs as he tried to latch onto the words, to understand them, but it was no use.

“What?” he whispered.  “I can’t - I don’t know what you said.”

“No English word,” Victor finally replied, his voice quiet and far away, lined thickly with the accent he was usually able to speak around with ease.  Yuuri’s heart ached, sudden and painful, and the guilt from moments before stabbed at him fiercely.  He opened his mouth to apologize, to apologize for everything and nothing, for not speaking Russian, for not reading his mind, for not knowing he was feeling ill earlier - when Victor’s hand wiggled out of the pile of blankets and poked wearily toward his own temple.  “Here,” he mumbled, “this.  Head hurts.”

“A headache?  Victor, do you have a headache?”  Yuuri reached out toward him, only to jerk his hand back before he could touch a cheek, his hair, his shoulder.  He clenched his fingers into a fist, dropping his arm to his side.

“Da.”

It came out as a breath, even less than a whisper.  Yuuri nodded, the motion unseen by Victor’s closed eyes.  Victor mumbled something else, something entreating and pleading and once again in Russian, and Yuuri’s brain froze for a moment, trying so very hard to understand - but nothing else followed the short string of syllables.  Instead, he burrowed further down into his blankets in a weak attempt to hide his face from the poor light still coming in from the hall.

“Um,” Yuuri began, standing awkwardly by the bed and wishing he could do more to help while feeling so very out of place, “I’ll go refill your water, okay?  In case you want that instead of tea.”

Yuuri picked up the glass and backed out of the room as quietly as he could.  The bathroom was just across the hall, and he shuffled inside, making quick work of dumping out the previous contents of the cup and refilling it from the tap.  He set the glass down and leaned against the counter for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady his tingling nerves, still alight with sharp and bitter guilt.  Victor was truly sick, wasn’t he?  How could Yuuri have missed this earlier?  It was obvious, so obvious.  He couldn’t even move from the bed.

He bit his lip and dug his phone from his coat pocket, hesitating a few seconds before opening his contact for Yurio to start a text.  They’d spoken a few times here and there since the teenager had left, mostly inane and irrelevant things, and it was early enough in Russia to not be intruding on anything important.  Right?  Right.  Yes, right.

The last conversation they’d had had been about Yurio’s cat, a photo still recent enough on the screen, and Yuuri looked at it to convince himself say something.  _Does Victor get headaches?_ he finally asked.  Short, deliberate and to the point, certainly, without being...what, weird?  He didn’t even know, and as soon as the message sent, he regretted it.

But his phone vibrated with a startling abruptness, as if Yurio had been holding his own and replied immediately.  Which he probably had been.  _Is that a trick question?  That idiot IS a headache._

But then another text came directly after the first before Yuuri could even lock his phone to put away - _I dunno, I dont care_

Yuuri sighed and shook his head, reaching to pick up the water again.  A dead end, not worth asking, and once again he regretted even starting the conversation in the first place.  Victor would be fine.  It was just a headache, right?  Nothing to stress over, nothing to worry about.  Nothing.  Suddenly, though, his phone vibrated again, and he looked down at it curiously to see what else Yurio had to say.

_I have taken Yuras phone to answer your question_

Yuuri blinked, setting the glass down as he stared at the screen and the bouncing ellipses indicating someone, a stranger with Yurio’s phone, apparently, was still typing another message.

_This is Yakov Feltsman.  Do not tell Vitya we spoke, he would not be happy._

Yuuri almost dropped his phone, he was so startled by the simple line of the text, and instead ended up clutching at the device frantically before it could clatter into the empty sink.  The ellipses kept going, Yuuri’s heart pounding against his throat with - what, fear or anxiety or relief?  Everything?  He wasn’t even sure what was happening in that brief span of time all the way across the world and then into his tiny bathroom, brought by his stupid phone and his stupid idea to text Yurio a stupid question.  

Another much longer message popped up on the screen before his brain could stop reeling.

_If he has been drinking ignore him he will be fine.  If no alcohol is involved yes, he gets headaches.  Not often.  I do not know english translation for them, Yura is not helping.  He has pills to take.  He will sleep and be useless, and then be fine.  He knows this and should have told you._

More ellipses.  Yuuri stared, his fingers gripped on the phone until his knuckles turned white.  Only a few seconds passed.

_Put something cold against his eyes it will help._

Yuuri very quickly sought to find his head again and sent a gracious thank you for the unexpected information.  He was about to type more, his fingers shaking, when the ellipses came up again on the other side, and another message popped up much faster this time.

_lol Yakov told me to delete his texts, he doesn’t want Victor to see them_

Yurio was back in possession of his phone, then.  Yuuri stared as more texts came in quick succession, his blood pressure regulating itself somewhat as his life resumed to be as normal as it could possibly be after that bizarre whirlwind.

_he’s so weird about him_  
_especially now_  
_like that old fart is ever going to see my phone from Japan_  
_Yakov says hes your problem now, good luck_  
_I cant tell if he means it or not lol_  
_and something cold?_  
_I bet Victor brought all his stupidass gold medals with him_  
_drop one of those on his stupid face_  
_Whatever enough about Victor  
Look what Potya did this morning_

And then a picture of Yurio’s cat came through.  Yuuri couldn’t help but smile, at least a little, as the Himalayan’s big fluffy face took up his screen.  He replied with something about how sweet she was - the kind of response Yurio was looking for - and put his phone back into his pocket in an effort to maybe forget any of that had happened.

It was easy to find a clean washcloth from the storage cupboard in the hall and wet it with cold water at the sink.  He took this and the filled glass back to Victor’s room.  Victor, for his part, hadn’t appeared to have moved at all.  Yuuri set the cup back on the side table, taking a moment to rearrange the books and little assortment of things back to the neatness Victor usually left them in.  He put the now-lukewarm tea and water in easy reach, the unknown pills near both just in case.

Then, feeling a bit bolder than he had earlier, after his close encounter with Yakov (if it could be called that, and Yuuri _was_ calling it that), he crossed to the other side of the bed, the side Victor was curled toward.  Guilt was still heavy in his chest, but he found it easier to tame now, in the moving tide of actively _helping_.  Victor seemed to be asleep again, taking short little breaths through parted lips.

The press of the cold cloth against his face stirred him, and Victor cracked his eyes open against the dim light of the room.

“Coach Yakov said this would help,” Yuuri said, immediately deciding not to lie even by omission regardless of the rather terrifying experience of minutes ago and the older man’s insistence Victor not be informed of their interaction.  Victor’s eyebrows scrunched in baffled question even if the question itself did not come.  “He took Yurio’s phone.  I’ll tell you the story later.”

“Yakov,” Victor mumbled, a hand coming out from under his pile of blankets to push down on Yuuri’s where he was still holding the washcloth to his forehead.  It put what could only be a good amount of pressure on that part of his head, but Victor didn’t let up and Yuuri didn’t dare move.  His heart leapt against his throat again, beating several times as he swallowed around it, feeling the clammy heat of Victor’s hand and the weight of his palm.  He felt so very real.

“Yakov hates me.”

It took a moment for Yuuri to register the slurred English words, and then his heart swelled painfully for another reason.  “What?” he asked, startled.  “What, no!  Coach Yakov doesn’t hate you,” Yuuri rushed to say, wanting desperately to add _anyone who remembers so much about a person’s health, anyone who cares so much for your well-being could never_ hate you _, they couldn’t!_ \- but the words wouldn’t come, and all Yuuri was left with was the lessening pressure of Victor’s hand on top of his and the slackening of Victor’s face under the cold cloth.

But then Victor’s lips pressed into a grimace and he took a sharp breath.  “They all hate me now.  I...”  He trailed off for a second, his voice fading and Yuuri’s breath fading with it as his heart not only swelled, it broke completely.  Yuuri opened his mouth to say something, anything, but then Victor finally murmured, “I just want to be happy.”

 _Guilt, fear, panic_ \- they roared together in Yuuri’s chest.  What did that _mean_?  What did Victor mean?  What was Yuuri supposed to say?  Was Victor waiting for a response?  What was -

Victor’s hand slid from Yuuri’s down to the blanket, limp with sleep.   _Sleep and be useless_ , Yakov had said.  Was the medication he took a sedative, or some kind of heavier pain reliever?  It must be.  Yuuri took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose in an effort to calm himself.  Victor was definitely asleep again.  Perhaps - perhaps his words hadn’t meant anything.  He reached out again to resettle the cloth against Victor’s forehead, more firmly over his eyes as Yakov had instructed.

“No one hates you, Victor,” he whispered to ears that didn’t hear him, wishing for the words to be believed as fervently as he believed them himself.

A call came from the down the hall, his mother at the bottom of the stairs alerting him to dinner.  Yuuri glanced over his shoulder, across the dark room and into the dim hallway where he knew he would not be able to see the stairwell.  He turned back to Victor, who remained still and unmoving to the savory smells of dinner he would usually be clamoring for.

Yuuri bit his lip against the swell of emotion as it pounded on his ribs, crushing and pushing and beating relentlessly, and reached out one more time to adjust the folded washcloth.  He flipped it over to press the cooler side to Victor’s face, over his closed eyes, his forehead.  

“No one hates you,” he repeated, softer, and then, with more conviction added, “Please feel better soon.”

And then he left, closing the door behind him with a gentle click.  He was halfway down the hall when he changed his mind and went back on quiet feet, opening the door again, sliding it back partway and peering inside the darkness to the unmoving lump on the bed that was Victor.  Yuuri took a deep, deciding breath and stepped back, this time leaving the door open that crack and turning the light off in the stairwell instead.

Maybe - if what Victor said was true...maybe this way if he woke up, he wouldn’t feel quite so alone, or unhappy?  If the door was open.  Like some kind of connection to the rest of the Katsuki family.  

The guilt was still there, but it slowly eased when he went to bed several hours later and saw the door had been nudged open just a little further.  It could have been the dog, couldn’t it, pushing the door as she moved in or out - but _still_.  Makkachin scrambled inside around Yuuri’s legs as he paused just outside the threshold, watching as she jumped into the bed and immediately calmed to find a place to lie down near what was presumably Victor’s head under the blankets.  His chest felt tight.    

He didn’t say anything, and Victor didn’t move, didn’t appear to know he was there at all.  Words were heavy on his tongue, the desire to go inside, to check on him, to make sure all was well, pushed heavily against his feet.  But he didn’t move to do any of those things.

Instead, when he found his breath again, found his bearings, he walked on to his own room, wishing Victor a silent goodnight.  

Yuuri would see him tomorrow, he was sure of it.    



End file.
